


Dust in the Wind

by Misha_Collins_Overlord



Series: Dean Winchester's Experience with Happiness [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Hunting, Kansas, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, PTSD, Vampires, Violence, Werewolves, dust in the wind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5031331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misha_Collins_Overlord/pseuds/Misha_Collins_Overlord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been months since Castiel disappeared, nothing but a single white feather and a bloody trenchcoat as a testament to his existence. Losing Castiel was like losing everything good in his life. Dean was angry. And when he was angry, the smart thing to do was to stay out of his way.<br/>Which was a bit difficult when he was searching for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seven Times Fallen

_I close my eyes._

Dean tore the machete from the holster.

_Only for a moment then the moment's gone._

A yell pushed from his throat.

_All my dreams._

Blood dripped down his skin.

_Pass before my eyes in curiosity._

The vampire's head fell to the ground like it was nothing.

_Dust in the wind._

_All they are is dust in the wind._

 

Dean inhaled deeply as he wiped the creature's blood from his face, disgusted. Three down, one to go.

He used the dead vampire's clothes to clean some of the blood from the deadly blade. He was ready. His jaw clenching, his feet fucking silent on the gravel, he stalked forward. 

A pause. He let his eyes scan the immediate area. Just as he was about to continue on, he saw movement, heard the slight scrape of a shoe on the ground, and that was it. 

He slunk around the corner, seeing the child pressed up to the wall, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming quickly.

"Gotcha."

The child opened his eyes just in time to see the blade before it cut through his neck.

_Don't hang on._

_Nothing lasts forever_

_But the earth and sky._

_It slips away,_

_And all your money_

_Won't another minute buy._

 

* * *

 

Dean rolled out his shoulders, feeling just as dead inside as before he started.

_Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind._

He shut off the radio of the impala, relishing the silence that meant no vamps, and a successful hunt. He climbed inside, and drove, the vibrations from his baby reverberating through his bones.

The journey was a daze, he didn't remember when he got back to his house, only that he did and he was here.

He made his way into the bathroom, exhausted, weary, and looked into the mirror. He was covered in blood and grime. Evidence of a hunt well done. Seeing his reflection brought a plethora of negative emotions -- anger, shame, hate -- so he placed his hand on the mirror as he shut his eyes and turned away.

There, on the floor, unmistakable. A feather. Pure, white. 

He fell to his knees, reaching out to it, tears filling his eyes, as his fingers passed through nothing. He was hallucinating. There was no feather.

He shut his eyes tightly, and regretted it near-immediately for when his eyes were closed, he heard the screams and saw the faces of those that he failed to protect.

But none had, and none would ever, haunt him the way he was haunted by the face of an angel. The blood-soaked trenchcoat, the broken bones it couldn't have protected, the body that was home to a being stronger than a galaxy. If he was dead - and God did the evidence point to that - then Dean accepted it was his fault.

_Righteous man? Yeah, right._

He threw a punch at the mirror after scrambling to his feet, hearing Castiel in his head, " _Dean, I love you . . . Dean, Dean, Dean,_ " thundering down the stairs, throwing any glasses and cups and chairs within reach at the walls. Once his hand grazed the neck of a bottle of whiskey, he took one deep breath, visibly calmer, and poured as much of the burning liquid down his throat as he could.

 _Anything_ just to make that voice stop. 

_Please, God, make it stop._

 

* * *

 

He woke up on the kitchen floor, broken glass sprinkled on the floor around him, empty bottle occupying his aching hand. He allowed himself the comfort of laying there for a moment, trying to let his eyes adjust to the light and knowing that if he moved too fast he may vomit. His hip twitched slightly, and yes, he felt how unstable the liquid in his stomach was.

Bracing himself, he slowly made his way to his feet, glass crunching under the boots he was thankful to see he was still wearing. The moment he was standing, he bent over the sink and was retching, coughing, emptying the contents of his stomach.

Once he felt like that was it, it was over, he cupped his hand and poured water from the faucet, rinsing out his mouth. He wiped a wet hand down his face, surprised as he had completely forgotten about the mess of blood and dirt.

Although he felt the unsightly exterior was a perfect match for his tainted interior, he made the decision to clean up.

He showered under water that was too hot and scrubbed his skin until he bled.  It did nothing to ease the hatred in his bones. That was there to stay, where it made its home.

He didn't remember walking back down the stairs but the evidence was there, little shards of glass embedded into the carpet. Moments later, cupboard doors were flung open and a quiet "fuck" was the only sound in the house. The one thing he wanted -- the one thing he needed -- was nowhere to be seen. Except its shell all over the floor.

Looks like he'd have to go out for his whiskey.

Dean decided to walk the two blocks to the convenience store, rolling his shoulders every few moments. There was no shaking that tension. That went cell-deep.

He let his fingers pick out the appropriate bottle of hunter's helper and he made sure to grab that day's newspaper before paying.

Flicking through the thin pages as he walked back to his humble abode, a passage caught his eye.

After reading it, he nodded to himself, preparing mentally for the hunt.

The article told of two bodies that had been found in the back-ass of nowhere, South Dakota. The bodies both had the hearts torn out, nowhere to be found. Vicious. Sounded like a werewolf to Dean.

The second he got into his house, he was packing his silver bullets and guns into a duffle bag. Mechanical. Efficient. Like he’d done it a hundred times. He probably had, and would do it countless times more.

He was out on the road in fifteen minutes. The six and a half hour drive to South Dakota was in complete silence. Dean’s goal was to get in, do what he needed to do, and get out. No distractions.

The sun was setting just as Dean pulled up outside the Rapid City town library. He asked the small lady at the desk for local maps, and she pointed him in the right direction with a smile and a customary sweep of his body with her eyes.

Scanning the dusty maps, his foot was tapping under the table. Eager. Ready.

Anxious.

He figured any werewolf who gave half a shit about secrecy would set up shop in Black Hills, and that was his next destination. He circled the small shack in Black Hills, and was on his way.

The time it took getting to the shack was irrelevant to Dean, and he didn’t keep track. He got there when he got there. The moon was out now. That was what mattered.

Once he parked up the impala, he hopped out and popped the trunk to load up his weapons. He cocked his pistol, ready to go.

A scream erupted from the shack. A woman.

He kicked in the door, catching a glimpse of the savage eyes of a werewolf as it lunged for him. He emptied the clip into the creature and it fell to the ground, motionless. Dean pulled out his machete and drove it through the thing’s neck.

Better safe than sorry.

The woman, young, pretty, covered in blood and sweat, sobbed softly.

“Who are you?” She cried.

His response, emotionless, words echoing those of his fallen lover but lacking the grace his angelic lips had said them with.

“ _I’m the righteous man_.”


	2. Good News, Dean.

Dean started off the weekend preparing for a case that appeared to be nothing more than a regular old haunting. Nobody dead yet, but two kids were injured in the abandoned warehouse on two separate occasions. The assailant, they both claimed, appeared from and disappeared into thin air.

Dean rolled his eyes when he read their account of the incident. When someone says somewhere is haunted, you don't go fucking in there. Things like this were why. Not that civilians knew, most didn't believe in ghosts.

Dean didn't used to.

Dean knew better now.

God, he thought back to the first case he'd done on his own. The first dead body he had to burn. The smell of charred flesh and the sight of mangled bones blackening as the yellow fat dripped into a sizzling puddle on the earth.

He didn't think he would ever be able to forget that image as long as he lived. The trick now was to look away as soon as he dropped the lighter.

* * *

 

He pulled up outside the warehouse, the door of the impala creaking along with his knees as he stood.

Dean's eyes squinted in the sunlight as he scanned the exterior of the building. The usual; busted and boarded up windows, poorly chained up doors that were somehow still adorned with flimsy handles, and graffiti everywhere.

Since the attacks, the exposed windows had been boarded with fresh plywood. His head swiveled, checking for onlookers.

Pretty empty.

The beer cans and empty glass bottles littered around the property told him that this was one of those places that teenagers frequent at nights to drink inside, which meant he made the right call coming during the day.

He opened the trunk of the impala. Flashlight, sawed-off, salt shells, iron knuckledusters, lighter fluid, shovel. He shoved the extra shells, lighter fluid and shovel into his duffel bag, zipped it up, slipped the knuckledusters on his left hand. He snatched up his bolt cutters to take care of the chains on the main entrance, and threw them back in the trunk before closing it.

Time to go in.

He held the flashlight under the shotgun, scanning each room before seeing a flash of someone walking through a doorway. He followed, silently. A woman stood with her back to Dean, her long, white dress dirty and torn, a wedding ring on her finger, dripping blood, a ribbon holding her hair up, and she flickered.

And she disappeared.

Dean turned, continued going room to room, until he heard a lady sobbing behind a closed door. He readied his gun, and nudged the door open with his foot. It was heavy and it creaked, and the sobbing stopped and she turned and screamed in fury and shot straight through him. It felt cold and made him dizzy and breathless, his vision went white, and he staggered, grabbing the doorway.

When Dean was able to stand once more, he blinked and opened his eyes in time to throw a punch with his left fist into the oncoming ghost.

She dissipated. She reappeared a moment later, from behind him, and she hit him and it felt like a truck smacked his brain. He was on the floor, disoriented, trying to focus. He had to find what she was bonded to.

And he stood, and the cracked floorboard gave way and he fell through.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," he winced. He slowly got to unsteady feet, thanking whatever god there was that the shotgun was still in his grip. He could reach the floor he'd fallen through with his hand, and he was glad he wasn't stuck. The flashlight was behind him, and he picked it up. He heard the woman wail. 

Dean scanned the floor with the beam of light, and it caught something close to him and glinted. A ring, the stone crusted with blood. As his fingers grazed it, the woman shrieked in anger and threw him against the rough concrete. 

 _The ring. It's the ring. It's her blood_.

He scrambled to his feet, shooting a salt round in the direction he heard her scream, and there was silence. He shoved the flashlight in his jacket, tossed the gun through the hole, jumped and pulled himself up. 

He found his dropped duffel bag a few feet from the hole, and he grabbed the lighter fluid from it as quickly as he could. The lady flickered into view just as he jumped in the hole. 

He sprayed the liquid onto the ring, and she lashed out. He was thrown against the wooden wall. Dazed and with his head throbbing, he rolled towards the ring, pulling a lighter from his jacket. He sparked it and slid it across the floor, and the flame caught. 

She burned, along with the remnants of her blood, angrily, and was gone.

Dean's head fell back against the ground, and he breathed heavily. 

Another case done.

 

He was walking through the main hallway when he saw her. She was short, Chinese, pretty, and was wearing glasses.

"Dean Winchester," she said. It was a fact, not a question. "You can put down the gun." She waited. Dean didn't move.

She sighed, "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm an angel. My name is Ambriel." She nodded as he slowly lowered the weapon. "We've heard your prayers. Unfortunately, after the altercation with the demon Crowley, it was unsafe for us to contact you."

"Cas. What about Castiel?" Dean asked, tears burning in his eyes.

"That's why I'm here," she smiled. "He isn't dead. We were there that day, fighting Crowley's demons, and when we got to Castiel, he was being tortured. He was damaged quite badly, Dean. We managed to transport him back to heaven. His wings," her voice cracked, though whether it was with anger or sadness, Dean couldn't tell. "His wings were mutilated. The feathers ripped from them." She had to stop and take a moment to regain her composure.

"It was horrific, Dean. I have never seen anything like that in my lifetime," she licked her lips and shook her head. "He has needed all of this time to heal. He is not yet able to fly, but the time is coming soon, and he will contact you himself."

Dean was speechless. The tears spilled down his cheeks.

"Take care of yourself, Dean Winchester," she smiled, and with a gust of wind and a flapping of wings, she was gone.

 _Cas._ Dean fell to his knees with relief and grief and happiness and exhilaration and the stress fell from his shoulders. _Castiel was alive_.

 


End file.
